The game is over.
From the woods
they come and circle
in the deep-angled light,
disappointed we havenít had a
better game. ďI am tired,Ē I say. I am
scared, not tired.
The boys and girls, dirty and
under-dressed for the cool
air, need to come out of
the darkness. They, too, are
tired. I mean to say they are scared,
scared even to say it.
I call them together, huddle,
if only for a minute, to get warm. We canít go
in, my parents will be mad,
letís just stand, together,
for a short while. Get shoulder to shoulder
and bow your heads. Rub your
arms with your hands,
stamp your feet. Laugh uncomfortably,
if you must, but keep your bodies
moving, just a little.
Donít worry about touching
the person next to you, just stay close.
See how we are, faced
inward in a circle? We are
together, if we want to be. Maybe
sometime, later, we will put our arms around
one another, and rub the arms and
back of the person next to us. This is
all so creepy. It doesnít have to be.
We know what has happened.
We become one; scattered shards pieced
together. We make a pot, or a pitcher. We hold
water as well as anything, and
more elegantly than most.
And let the darkness fear our light.